Another Man's War
by TwiggyShei
Summary: There is no higher purpose or just cause here. Kill and refuse to die.
1. Chapter 1

"In desperate times, conscripted criminals refill our ranks. Sometimes, however, you find a diamond in the rough. The most elite _earn_ their name; Conquerors. Strong as a battering ram, resilient as a fortress gate, their flail is as dangerous to the wielder as it is to the enemy. But in the right hands, it becomes unstoppable. Rise, Conqueror, and live up to your name."

Those were the words that General Cross himself had spoken to me not a week ago, while I knelt in the mud amid the bodies of the fallen. At the time, I had felt honored, courageous, and as mighty a warrior as he seemed to believe I was. Now, though, I had doubts.

We hadn't held the keep at Silver Rock for long, and my ascension to the rank of Conqueror had followed just after the fortress fell to us. Now, we risked losing it. The war had not been in our favor since the death of Appolyon, and General Cross's defection from her legion. Infighting in our ranks had weakened us and allowed our enemies to seize the advantage. Silver Rock had been held by some of Appolyon's most devoted followers before we took it back, and now the soldiers of the Dawn Empire hoped to take it from us.

I didn't care. Cross had been right in his speech, I was a criminal long before I'd been a soldier, and I still thought like one. I'd only gained renown in battle for savagery, and it was a savagery born of desperation rather than bravery. Let our leaders argue their politics and discuss strategy amongst themselves. Strategy won wars, but tactics won battles, and kept a man alive. That was the reason I'd abandoned the arming sword given to fresh meat and taken a flail from a fallen Conqueror; tactics. A good swordsman knew how to disorient a foe, strike with differing forms and stances to bypass any defense, but I wasn't a good swordsman. A highwayman favored smaller weapons, easier to conceal and tougher to predict. A simple hunting knife had been my preferred arm back when I'd been holding up peddlers on the road, but a knife was a weapon of last resort on the battlefield. I'd kept mine, thankfully, but the flail had appealed on a deeper level. The structure of it allowed me to fight unpredictably even without much actual skill in fighting, and my style was something that trained warriors weren't used to. A Knight was taught to fight by training, but a criminal learned to fight by fighting.

The Chosen were approaching now, rising over the crest of the hill at the end of the road and moving swiftly towards the gates of the keep. A thrill of terror ran up my spine at the sight of so many soldiers, and I already knew we were badly outnumbered. It would have been wise, I thought, to pull what troops we had behind the gates and retreat inwards, but Cross had ordered a vanguard to defend the gate itself from the Chosen. What they'd been chosen for and by whom was a question I'd often asked, but no one seemed to have a good answer. I liked to think that Cross had a good reason for moving men to the front during a defensive battle, and he seemed a savvy enough leader to know how to play a losing hand, but it was hard to have faith in our leader when he remained inside the fortress, and we remained out here.

"You ready, lads?" another Conqueror turned his back on our foe to face us, and I recognized the crest on his helmet. His name was Stone, though whether it was first name or surname nobody knew, and he was one of Cross's most trusted lieutenants. He and a Warden I didn't recognize were leading the vanguard today, with me, two Lawbringers, and a single Peacekeeper. We had a force of foot soldiers to support us, perhaps fifty strong, which wasn't so bad, but the soldiers inside the walls numbered over two hundred strong. Why were they hiding inside?

A rousing cheer went up from the men around me, which I reluctantly joined in. Truth be told, I would be more than happy to abandon my weapons and flee, but desertion was punishable by death, and if I ran, the Peacekeepers would catch me. There was no choice but to fight.

"That's an awful lot of slant-eyes…" one of the men next to me muttered. I recognized his face and voice but couldn't come up with a name. "Think we've got a chance?"

"General Cross has a plan," replied one of our Lawbringers, Alexander Cordet if I wasn't mistaken. "We follow his lead and we'll win, jut like we always do."

"Worst comes to worse, we can always make Convict take his helmet off and scare them away," our Peacekeeper, Maria, mocked. A quick smattering of nervous laughter, which I decided to join in. The joke was at my expense, sure, but it wasn't like she was wrong; I certainly wasn't a hit with women underneath my helmet. My real name had been irrelevant after my arrest, so most folk simply referred to me as "Convict" in the army. I certainly looked the part: a jagged dagger wound carved a permanent grin onto my left cheek, while vicious burns marred my jawline from ear to ear, extending up to just above my right eye. Time had helped the scars fade, a bit, but the flesh was still pocked, sagging and wrinkled. I was lucky my right eye still worked at all, to be honest. The burn continued down my neck to my chest and extended from the edge of my left shoulder down to the tip of my fingers. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten them.

The slant-eyes stopped marching, only a hundred meters or so away from the gate. I could make out the snarling demon face of the leader's faceplate and saw him raise his fist as a signal for his men to wait. His army moved with utmost discipline and responsiveness, coming to a halt and bringing their weapons to rest. Our men shuffled their feet nervously as the daimyo took three rapid steps forwards, out onto the field, and drew his sword, planting its tip into the dirt.

"Men of Ashfield," his voice in Common was heavily accented, and it took me a moment to realize he was speaking Common at all, through the stiffness of his speech. "You are alone and outnumbered! Your warlord, the demon Appolyon is dead. Her Blackstone Legion is in ashes. Lay down your arms and surrender your fortress to the Dawn Empire. Mercy will be met with mercy, and bloodshed with further bloed. I await your reply!"

I could guess what Stone would say when he took three steps of his own forwards and cupped his hands around the mouthguard of his helmet.

"You want it? Come get it!" he waved an arm at our enemies in challenge and hunched his shoulders, bringing his shield to bear and starting to build momentum in his flail. Another roar of approval from the rest of the vanguard. I didn't bother to join in, acting hot-blooded in the heat of battle would be the death of me. Passion alone didn't stave off death.

"I show you honor!" the daimyo drew his sword out from the earth and leveled it at Stone, "You would be wise to return that courtesy. Hand over Holden Cross, and surrender your keep. This is your last chance!"

"It ain't happening," Stone hollered back at them and I saw the daimyo's shoulders heaved in a sigh of what may have been regret.

"Do not say you were not warned," he called, and wiped the mud off of his sword. There was pure silence between our two armies as their force surveyed our vanguard. _They're just flesh and bones, flesh and bones,_ I muttered to myself, rolling my shoulders and preparing myself. Death was a part of life, and if all men really were equal in the eyes of God, then the lives of my opponents had just as little worth as my own.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears so loudly I couldn't hear the bellowed command of the daimyo, or even the battle cries of his men. I heard our own men readying for battle, preparing to meet them, but distorted, as though I was underwater. The world seemed to slow down, and I was cripplingly aware of the way my helmet restricted my peripheral vision, of how it made my breathing sound far too loud and strained. The enemy was charging, and the time to fight and to kill was upon us. I crouched low into a knife-fighter's stance, holding my shield at an angle. My style wasn't orthodox, but it worked for me, and relied on making my shield just as much for offense as defense. The flail was powerful but took a moment to wind up. Once it got moving, its speed was quite fast, but in the interim, I relied on using the rim of the shield to bash both enemies' bodies and incoming strikes.

A hail of arrows rained down from the walls of the fortress and cut down the first oncoming wave of slant-eyes, while others tripped and stumbled over the thrashing bodies of their comrades.

"Go now!" Stone roared like an animal and led the charge directly into their ranks. It was unwise, I thought to embroil ourselves in the fray this soon: our archers wouldn't be able to fire another volley for fear of hitting us, but I would be condemned as a coward if I stayed here. Following the others, I sprinted into battle, whirling the flail in rapid circles.

I didn't cease running as the vanguard met the besiegers, and the spinning head caved I in the face of the first man to cross me. Another tried to strike at my flank as I knocked his friends aside in scores, but a backwards kick to his knees made him stagger, before I whirled and took his head off.

I was vaguely aware of my comrades fighting alongside me but didn't bother to watch them; my own struggle was the only thing that mattered. I shredded the common soldiers of the Chosen with relative ease, using the flail's wide swings to keep the fearful among them at bay while using my shield to knock away anyone who got too close.

The body of one of our own footmen crashed into me from the side, and I staggered, turning to try and see where I was being attacked from. The massive studded club of an equally massive warrior crashed into my chest. If not for my layered brigandine, I was certain my chest would have caved in. As it was, I had bruised my ribs, and nearly fell over from the impact. Stumbling, I kept my footing and noted the way both our footmen and the enemy's seemed to back away from the two of us. I surveyed my opponent.

He was a huge fellow for a man of his race, nearly my height and at least twice if not three times as broad. His arms were gargantuan and bare, revealing impressive musculature while his face was concealed behind the shrieking mask of an ogre. He held that long club in both hands, which was a testament to its impressive weight, and I was certain that if he'd been aiming for my head, even my helmet wouldn't have prevented my brains from being splattered all over the battlefield. My shield wouldn't be able to block a strike from that weapon head on, but if I could shunt it to the side, I might stand a chance.

He came at me, bringing the club upwards in a sweeping uppercut that would have smashed my manhood if I hadn't stepped lightly backwards. I was a smaller man than he was as far as girth was concerned, with a narrow build more suited to running than fighting. He was bulky and strong, while I was lean and hungry. It would be like watching a coyote try to face down a bear, or perhaps a bull. I got the flail swinging and swung twice in a quick series of circles before changing my stance and altering the angle of attack. A lightning fast series of blows from the head of the flail thundered against him, but he maneuvered that club with greater dexterity than I'd anticipated, and while I succeeded in driving him off of me, I hadn't done any damage. _He's faster than he looks,_ I noted, _alter your fighting style._

Conquerors were men known for their patience and defensive methods, a fact that our enemies had to be aware of by now. But at heart, a highwayman was a highwayman, and speed over strength had always been my forte. _Get in his head, force him to panic. Fear induces mistakes._ I sprang at him, using a telegraphed overhead swing to bait him. He stepped into it, anticipating the move, which was exactly what I needed him to do. My flail thudded harmlessly against the club and bounced back. He made a long sweep to try and knock me back, but I didn't bother trying to take it on my shield. Instead, I redirected the momentum of the flail as it swung towards me, bringing it around, ducking beneath the swing and flinging the flail up into the club as it swung. The chain caught the club's haft rather than the head and wrapped around my enemy's weapon. I heard a surprised breath, before hauling with all my might. He stumbled forwards, refusing to release his only armament and I rammed the edge of my shield into the space between his helmet and chest piece. A tremor ran up my arm as the shield crushed his throat and he dropped the club to claw at his neck feebly before dropping to the earth. I tugged the flail, letting it unwrap from the club's haft, and turned to meet my next opponent.

More footmen rushed me, expecting strength in numbers, and I gave ground, keeping them at bay while I regrouped with the rest of our men. Our foot soldiers were slaughtered to the man, the curved slashing blades of our enemies more than a match for us, and those of us who survived were retreating towards the gate. Stone and I acted as flank guards, our whirling flails protecting the sides of our formation, while our single remaining Lawbringer and Warden held the front. Maria, fenced in by our defense, lobbed blade and incendiaries at the enemy to help hold them off. _Anytime now, Cross,_ I thought as a slant-eyes wielding a long-bladed spear nearly skewered me. I batted the blow aside with my shield, swung wide to keep her off of me…

A sudden harsh cry sounded from the west, and Holden Cross charged into the fray, riding at the front of an impressive cavalry charge. Perplexingly, all of them were moving out from around the side of the wall, as if they'd been outside the walls the entire time… how was that possible? As far as I knew, Silver Rock's fortress walls only had one exit, and we were right in front of it.

The Chosen were in disarray, unready to face such an expected show of force. They had brought no horsemen of their own, and though they still had an advantage in numbers, Cross had taken the element of surprise, while each one of his mounted warriors was worth five light infantrymen.

"Rally to the General!" the Warden ordered us, "Push them back!"

I attacked my enemy with renewed vigor, able to fight with a clear head, while she was distracted by the arrival of our reinforcements. I understood Cross's plan now, though not how he'd pulled it off. We had been the bait to his trap, a means of luring in the enemy so that he could attack from the side. He'd probably had to rustle up every single horse in the town to mount so many soldiers, but the results were more than worth it. My flail swept the slant-eyes' feet out from under her, and I whirled it into a downward blow to the chest that smashed through rib and heart in seconds. I had only been fighting a few minutes, but already by breath had settled into a steady heave; the flail was an exhausting weapon to wield, especially for a man of my build, but if my time as a soldier thus far had given me anything, it was endurance. I could keep going for as along as it took to stay alive. The battle was far from over, it would be hours before we had either chased off the marauders entirely or beaten them into submission, but morale was higher, and the odds were on our side now.

I slammed to the brim of my helmet into the face of a sword-wielding slant-eye and jabbed with the shield, stunning him. Another jab, a left cross, backhand, uppercut, before slinging the flail around his neck, kicking out a leg, and crushing his throat with the chain. He went down, and I yanked the flail back to my hand as two new opponents approached me. The enemy's footmen knew better than to come near my flail without help, and now I was being eyed by a fierce-looking man with two swords and a hooded figure holding what appeared to be a pair of… sickles?

This was bad; I could handle multiple footmen at once, and single elite soldiers, but two of them against one of me wouldn't end well. I was separated from the rest of my comrades, alone and surrounded by the enemy. The two of them moved in simultaneously, and I was forced to make a quick decision. I would have to engage one quick and efficient before taking out the other. I feinted at the swordsman, then changed direction, redirecting my swing towards the masked man and knocking one of the sickles out of his hand. He gave ground and I turned back towards the swordsman, taking the slash of his shorter sword on my shield. I shoved, hurling my foe away and turned back to try and get a better look at the hooded man. He had changed position, taking advantage of my limited vision and circling my flank.

I swung wide, turning, trying to see where he was… a sickle bit into my hip, held, and I grunted in sudden pain. My leg quivered, threatened to give out, and I whirled, starting to drop to a knee while I brought the flail around. The head of my weapon crashed into the hooded man's arm, and I could almost hear the crunch of bone as my weapon shattered his wrist. He shrieked beneath his mask and stumbled away, leaving his remaining weapon embedded in my side. The swordsman, where had he gone?

The back of my neck prickled, and I flung my shield up over my head just as that wickedly curved blade crashed into it. The wood of the shield gave, and the short sword pierced through almost to the hilt, missing my arm by inches and leaving the tip hovering above my visor. My arm was trapped, and the second sword swung around at my unprotected chest. I couldn't parry with the flail, but I tried anyways, flinging the chain up before the blade. The chain caught and wrapped around the edge of the sword and the slant-eye pulled back on the blade, hauling my flail out of my hand. A kick to the back of my helmet told me that the hooded man wasn't out of the fight just yet, and I sprawled on my belly, my shield-arm twisted up behind me. I was trapped, the straps of my shield holding me in place, and the hooded man pulled his sickle out of my hip with a jerk. I made a sound hardly befitting a warrior, and my hand crept for the hunting knife. I was about to die, but they wouldn't be walking away from this either. The swordsman couldn't use his short sword as it remained embedded in my shield, but his longer blade angled itself at my exposed neck. I could just see the sunlight glint dully off the blade as my head was craned sideways.

My fingers closed around the knife hilt and I ripped it out of the sheath, stabbing directly into the calf of the swordsman. The razor-sharp blade slid through the meat of his leg like butter, and I heard his sudden cry of anguish. He let go of both his weapons, and my shield-arm was free. I whirled, throwing myself at the hooded man and letting the weight of my body and armor crash into him. His sickle buried itself in my shoulder, just beneath the pauldron, but I didn't let that stop me. My weight bore him to the earth, and I drove the knife through his neck, twisting the blade and letting his blood run over my fingers as he gurgled and choked.

A sword clanged against my helmet, knocking me off of my fallen enemy, and I realized that in my desperation to survive, I'd let myself get separated even further from my comrades. My ears were ringing from the blow to my head, and I tried to stagger back to my feet, but a boot cracked against my ribs where the studded club from before had struck. I couldn't think clearly, couldn't distinguish where I was being attacked from. _Focus,_ _you're going to die unless you get ahold of yourself._ I forced myself to keep my eyes open and saw a Chosen footman about to put his sword through my visor. I moved on instinct, grabbing his boot and yanking with all my might. He lost his footing and started to fall, while I shot upwards, gripping his shoulder and guiding him to fall onto my knife. He made a quick, pained sound as the blade pierced his flimsy armor and punched into his chest. I threw him off of me, searching the mud for my flail. Another sword blow dented the brigandine across my back, bruising me, and I forced myself to turn, still barely crawling on my knees, ramming the rim of my battered shield into my attacker's kneecap. He stumbled a step back and I pursued as fast as I was able, bashing and swinging with the shield to bring down as many of these bastards as I could before they killed me. I was cut off; escape and survival weren't options anymore. Fitting that my first battle as a Conqueror would turn out to be my last…

Foes surrounded me, and I dropped onto all fours, panting. My wounds were bleeding profusely, making me weak and woozy. My head spun and my helmet felt as though it was constricting me. Shouts and cries in the slant-eyes' own tongue, but I didn't speak a word of it to understand. The swordsman with the mismatched blades was limping towards me, screaming at his fellow warriors. I didn't understand hi words, but I could guess the meaning: "This one belongs to me."

I smiled, and my chest started to heave with laughter. What a dull life this had turned out to be. Three years a bandit, six months a soldier, and this was the end of it. The swordsman was using his longer sword like a staff to hobble towards me, even as Cross's horsemen massacred his comrades. I could appreciate his determination; he had as much chance of surviving this battle as I did right now.

The Chosen's back arched as a dagger punched through his belly from behind, and Maria tossed the dying swordsman to the earth before running towards me. My ears were still ringing and my head hurt. I wanted to sleep, and my eyelids felt heavier than the head of my flail. I did my bet to shake it off. Conquerors were meant to be resilient, and I was sure that while my wounds hurt, none of them were fatal. The battle wasn't over; Cross's cavalry charge had disoriented our enemy and pushed them back away from the fortress, but the Chosen were making us fight for every inch. Maria helped me get back on my feet.

"Can't leave you alone for a second, eh, Convict?" she muttered, handing me my flail. I took it gratefully and gave it a quick spin, taking comfort in the familiar heft of a real weapon. My knife went back into the sheath, and I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off my fatigue and injury. _Keep going,_ I reminded myself, following Maria as we moved to clean up the stragglers that remained by the gates of the fortress, _they're just flesh and bones, just flesh and bones._


	2. Chapter 2

My injuries weren't as severe as I had at first thought, though they weren't as trivial as my comrades had claimed either. I wasn't bedridden, not like some of the other, more unfortunate wounded that had survived the first siege of Silver Rock, but it still hurt to walk. A pretty young woman had helped disinfect the deep cuts in my hip and shoulder from where those wicked sickles had pierced, and she'd done the best job she could to stitch the wounds up afterwards. It was unfortunate, I decided, that so much good liquor had been commandeered for surgical purposes by our armies, but the risk of infection was far too great to do without it. The brandy had stung on the fresh, bloody gouges, but I'd done as soldiers did and gritted my teeth, rode out the pain.

The nurse's stitching was a bit clumsy, she was clearly more used to sewing cloth than skin, and I was certain that the wounds would scar, but that was a given in this line of work. The rest of my wounds were more internal, thankfully, and weren't the sort that could be treated by anything more than time. The heavy club blows and kicks to my side had left ugly bruises along my chest, and one of the more practiced physicians had told me that I'd probably fractured a rib or two. My left elbow joint had been overextended when my arm had twisted up behind my head, but a few quick jerks and the physician had set the bone back in place. A nasty red welt across my back from where a sword blow had failed to penetrate my brigandine, and several small lacerations on my face and arms.

I'd only needed treatment for a little under an hour before the physicians sent me on my way and set about tending to their more severe patients, and I was free to gather up my kit and take stock of the town. I was curious to see if I could find the second exit where General Cross had led his cavalry charge, and I'd been given leave for a day or two by my superiors until I was battle-ready again. My hip still hurt when I walked, and gave me a gimpy, limping gait, but so long as I didn't push myself, the stitches would hold, I thought. Unfortunately, before I could do any exploring of the town, I would need to maintain my equipment. It was a priority for a soldier, especially one of my somewhat esteemed rank, to look after his gear, and after a battle like that one, it would be wise to either repair or replace what had been damaged.

Steel was the currency of the world these days, more valuable than any other substance to any of the three factions; steel was material for weapons, armor, siege machines, arrowheads, and all manner of other amenities an army needed to thrive, and so steel was what every man in service of the Iron Legion was paid. Our wages weren't exactly uniform, rather a cut was taken from what could be salvaged from the enemy and divided up among the remaining soldiers. It was good incentive to win battles and pillage what we could from the corpses that were left behind. I didn't carry much, but the repair I would need to my armor were minimal, really.

A Conqueror's uniform was far from standard, a mismatched set of whatever a soldier could get his hands on, adapted for use by all shapes and sizes of men. I'd even seen some of the less scrupulous under our banner salvaging and incorporating bits and pieces of samurai and Viking armor into their own. My brigandine was still mostly intact, though it was badly worn out from use, but I deigned not to waste steel buying a new one or reinforcing it any further. That money was to be saved for my shield. The battle had been cruel to that length of board, the only defense I had to my name, and my tendency to use it as an offensive weapon meant that my shields tended not to last for very long at a time.

The framework of the shield had been bent and twisted at several points, shorn straight through at one juncture by a particularly fierce cut from a lengthy Chosen sword. The wood had splintered in so many places it was barely still there, and one of the boards had actually been knocked clean out of the frame, leaving a noticeable hole. The leather of the arm strap was still in fine condition, but the soft, untampered iron of the foregrip had been deformed by the pressure I'd put it under with my signature bashing. I'd known going into battle that the shield was on its last legs, but purchasing a new one was something I liked to avoid when I could help it. There was nothing for it, now though, and I made certain to visit the armorers' shop on my way out of Silver Rock's main keep. The man behind the counter, after inspecting my steel ingots to ensure that they were genuine, promised that he would have something for me within the fortnight, and that was that.

The rest of my armor was still relatively intact, though the pauldrons were a tad dented, and the helmet was scratched in several places. Luckily, I'd avoided taking so many blows that my armor had gone to tatters, thought he same couldn't be said of the ragged cloth tabard I'd been given to wear over my brigandine. Sword strikes and heavy blows had sliced and torn the cheap fabric to a few haphazard strips of cloths, clinging together by wayward strands and seams, but I couldn't be bothered paying someone else to sew it back up for me. If I were a tad more handsome, maybe I could have persuaded that pretty nurse to do it for me, but scars like mine looked twice as out of place on my young face than they would on an older man. I was just going to have to make do with what I had, regardless of how it looked.

My flail was, of course, completely undamaged; it was built for the kind of punishment that came with being such a heavy-hitting weapon, and I had a feeling that it would still be just as ready for bloodshed a hundred years after I was in the ground as it was today. I left it in the armory with the weapons of the other soldiers, knowing that it would be safe as houses there until I needed it again. In the meantime, I dressed in simple clothes, buckled on my knife belt, and left the central keep to get a better look at the town we'd been defending.

Silver Rock was a fascinating sort of settlement, larger than the average hamlet, obviously, yet not quite large enough to be a full city. The name was derived from the large veins of raw silver that miners had discovered below the bluff decades ago, and while the mines had been dug dry years ago, the empty shafts remained. I wondered if perhaps the mineshafts had been Cross's method of moving his cavalry into position for their charge, but dismissed the idea in moments; mineshafts were small, nowhere near wide or tall enough for a horse and rider to move through at full speed, and besides, why would a mineshaft lead back out of the city walls?

The town was built upon the gently sloping head of a large bluff that stood by the sea, the keep itself perched dangerously on the edge of the cliff face, with the town laid out before it, and the walls stretching like a pair of arms from the sides of the keep around the edges of the bluff before coming together at the main road away from Silver Rock. The main thoroughfare was set along the edges of the main road, with smaller houses nestled behind the market's front. There was a long strip of bare earth between the edge of the town proper and the walls, where soldiers ran drills and trained daily so long as they were on duty. The barracks had been built in a long, low structure along the base of the walls, with guardhouses placed at intervals along its length.

I shielded my eyes from the sunlight at I made my way outside; though the past week had been overcast, the clouds had finally cleared away today, as if in celebration of the Iron Legion's most recent victory. Most of the townsfolk didn't share the sentiment. Our occupation of Silver Rock was a double-edged sword, I noted, seeing some of the mistrustful glances heading my way from passersby. On the one hand, General Cross and his Iron Legion provided protection from the invaders to the north and the east, protection provided by men of Ashfeld, just like them. But maintaining an army was an expensive venture, and the numerous soldiers we brought with us meant many new mouths to feed. Plenty of common folk went hungry to ensure that their protectors had enough strength to fight on, while husbands and sons were recruited to make up for the losses we'd taken thus far.

I headed down the main thoroughfare, weaving my way through the masses of people that crowded the busy road, and wondering if it would appear foolish if I asked for directions to the old mines. A man with a face like mine, especially out of uniform, probably looked like trouble, and folk would get very suspicious of a man who looked like trouble asking directions to one of the most volatile places in Silver Rock. It was no secret that the mining tunnels that had been bored out of the bluff were… less than stable, and one of them collapsing, no matter how small, often could lead to serious repercussions for the town. I decided I'd find my own way there. I had no intention of causing trouble, or even going into the mines, but I was still curious about how Cross had managed to maneuver his cavalry the way he had, and the old silver mines were as good a place to start looking as any.

A mother ushered her children out of my path as I walked along, lost in thought, and I nearly tripped over the little ones as they toddled about my legs. I wanted to smile, children had that sort of effect on me, but self-consciousness got the better of me. My scarring wasn't as disfiguring as it had been a few years ago, back when the flesh had still been raw and red, but clearly the mother saw something she didn't like, elsewise she wouldn't have been so eager to give me a wide berth. Smiling was a bit of a hazard as well, I'd learned. The dagger slash on my cheek had never quite closed all the way, and it tended to stretch and split wider when I smiled too wide. I didn't want to frighten anyone by making them look at that…

I had been so lost in my own thoughts, I didn't even realize that I was nearing the edge of the town proper and drawing near to the barracks. It seemed like there was some sort of commotion over by the main gates, the same ones I'd been guarding just yesterday, and I altered my course, figuring that my investigation of Silver Rock could wait a few more minutes, at least until I saw what was going on. A small crowd of citizens had gathered by the main gates, jostling and shoving one another to get a better look at whoever was coming through as the gates swung open inwards. I quickened my pace, unfortunately relegated to the rear of the crowd as I drew near the road again, wedged between the backs of the onlookers and the side of a small shop. Luckily, I was taller than the average civilian, a benefit of both natural growth and more frequent meals growing up. General Cross was here, I noted, dressed in his customary full plate, and seemingly awaiting someone or something. I could guess who was coming through the gates even before I saw them, based solely on the small retinue of personal guards that trotted in first atop wild-looking mounts. The Warden, nameless, faceless, wreathed in mystery, followed after his retainers, sitting straight-backed and proud atop his own steed, and I saw both Cross and Stone fall into step on either side of the Warden's horse.

Nobody knew very much about the true leader of the Iron Legion, only that Cross seemed to trust him implicitly, and had ceded command of the Legion to the Warden when we had splintered from Apollyon's forces. In the chain of command, his word was absolute law to the folk of Ashfeld, and many likened the Warden to something not dissimilar to a king. I wasn't so sure about that; a king without a face wasn't exactly commonplace, or especially inspiring. It was odd, everyone agreed, that the man seemed reluctant to ever reveal his face to the public, though I had often wondered if perhaps he was not disfigured in a similar manner to myself… either way, retaining an air of mystery was a smart move for a legendary warrior figure, even if it would not make much sense for a governor. With his features obscured, the people would fantasize and dream about what the Warden truly looked like, while those under his command spread rumours of his terrifying prowess with the long sword.

I had never had the pleasure of serving under him in battle, so I couldn't be sure of the validity of his claims to greatness. Many were of the opinion that the Warden's fighting ability was so great that even Apollyon herself had feared him, while still others claimed that he had been the one to slay her when he wrested control of the Legions. Tactically, he was lauded as a genius the likes of which Ashfeld had not seen since before the Cataclysm, another entitlement I wasn't sure to condone or not. If he was so very great a leader and strategist, then why was it, I wondered, that the Knights of Ashfeld were losing this war?

The Warden rode solemnly, his helmeted head nodding almost imperceptibly to whatever he was being told about by Cross and Stone. He didn't seem to pay the shouts and applause of the townsfolk much heed, and I could find that admirable, at least. I was of a mind to believe that he was much more concerned with retaining our hold on both Silver Rock and the Blackstone Fortress than with bolstering his public image, which was heartening to note.

I tracked the Warden with my gaze as he passed, leaning against the side of the building, arms folded, refusing to take part in the same celebratory gestures of the peasantry; whether in uniform or not, I was still a soldier, and even if I didn't feel like some great warrior, I liked to maintain an air of professional distance as compared to those beneath me.

The hairs on my arms stood on end, and I got the distinct feeling that someone was watching me. Ordinarily it wouldn't have registered; I was stared at all the time with a face like mine, but with someone as all-encompassing and famous as the Warden on display, it was odd that anyone's attention would be fixated on the lanky young fellow towards the back of the crowd. I narrowed me eyes, looked around without swiveling my head. My days as a criminal had taught me a few tricks, among them the ability to search for observers without appearing alerted. It had been important when it came to avoiding the law, and I decided it would be better for me to find whoever was watching me before they knew I'd spotted them.

There. Riding some little ways back in the short column of the Warden's personal elites was a single Peacekeeper, slouched comfortably in the saddle, her masked face turned to look out at the crowd. Though I couldn't make out any of her features behind the ask and hood she sported, something about her posture and body language suggested languorous amusement at the rabble, as well as vague fascination with whatever it was that had caught her eye. That was me. I had the feeling she knew I had spotted her, and though there was no way to know for certain, I couldn't shake the feeling that our eyes had met at the exact same moment. I didn't know her name, Peacekeepers valued anonymity above anything else, but I could rule out Maria, at least. To be honest, this woman could be any number of other Peacekeepers who had arrived when we had, or maybe someone different entirely. With their uniform garb and near identical body proportions, telling Peacekeepers apart was a weighty task.

The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was imagining things, my ego making me simply believe that I had caught the eye of one of those intriguing ladies of war, but my suspicions were confirmed as she passed by me, and her head turned slowly to continue staring in my direction. A shiver ran down my spine, and I turned from the procession, deciding that it was a good idea to get back to my exploration of the town and put the Peacekeeper out of my mind. I had done nothing wrong, I was pretty sure, not since my initial arrest, at least, which should have guaranteed my safety from persecution… but it remained nearly impossible to put the thought of her out of my mind.

I left the crowd behind and wandered around the edge of the wall, strafing the guardhouses and passing by a group of footmen going about their drills. Though was still interested in figuring out how General Cross had snuck his cavalry into position for his plan to work, much more pressing issues began to loom in the frenzied depths of my imagination…


	3. Chapter 3

"Our position at the moment is quite frankly, completely untenable, Sir," one of the Warden's other generals, a man I didn't recognize, pounded a fist on the table to emphasize his point. "We are in control of only two major territories in the entirety of Ashfeld, while the rest of the countryside is being ravaged between the opposing forces of Valkenheim and the Dawn Empire. As is stands, it is imperative, for the sake of the people, that we expand our sphere of influence and take back what is ours from the heathens!"

I listened without speaking, that wasn't my place after all, standing to attention at Holden Cross's shoulder. Stone, my superior, stood beside me, while similar bodyguards or servants flanked the other officers seated around the long table. It was the first major meeting of the Warden's generals since the recapture of Blackstone Fortress, and the decisions made here would be pivotal towards our people maintaining a foothold in our own country. My attendance here was incredibly last-minute, I'd only received the notice when I retired to the barracks last night. Somehow, despite my lackluster performance on the battlefield, someone in the chain of command had seen fit to have me replace one of the Lawbringers we'd lost during the defense of the fortress as General Cross's bodyguard. It was, I'd been made very aware, a temporary arrangement, and I would return to my post as soon as a more suitable replacement was found, but as it was, I found myself witnessing a conference of military commanders rather than practicing drills with my fellow soldiers in the hot sun.

"It's not about taking as much land as quickly as possible," Cross replied to the man who'd spoken, "it's about making sure we're strong in the places we already have under our faction's control. As it is, we lack the funding and the manpower to mount another large-scale assault."

"Manpower is a serious issue," another general spoke up, this one guarded by a pair of bare-chested, thickset men holding tridents in their hands and small buckler shields strapped onto their wrists. "I would agree with General Cross when it comes down to our next move; we'll need a larger force to maintain both our hold here in Silver Rock and the Blackstone Fortress. As it stands, we're frightfully overextended. In fact, if I may be so bold, Lord Warden, I would inquire as to whom you left in your stead to look after our most valuable stronghold?"

The Lord Warden sat in silence at the head of the table, dressed in full armor in contrast to the more formally attired generals, with his longsword leaning easily against the arm of his chair. He ran gloved fingers over and across the pommel time and again, as though reassuring himself it was still there. He had spoken very little since the meeting had begun, content to listen to the arguments of every man serving under him before jumping to conclusions.

"The Blackstone Fortress is guarded by a force of one thousand soldiers loyal to me. Greater numbers than you have at your disposal here, General LeCroix. Leading them are six Lieutenants taken from each of your own personal stock, men whom I believe can be trusted to hold the fortress until I return. And while I cannot deny that securing our authority both in Silver Rock and Blackstone Keep is an important objective, we will not hope to hold either region for long with enemies continuing to pour across our borders."

A murmur of agreement, a few small disapproving sounds, and the Warden held up a hand to show he wasn't finished.

"In any case, before we make any move at all, we must take stock of everything at our disposal and decide afterwards where to focus or efforts. Holden?"

"Of course, my Lord," General Cross cleared his throat noisily, then leaned over the large array of maps and charts spread across the table. "Here at Silver Rock we have our own force, just shy of six hundred men. Those are the troops that you gave to me to take the city with."

"As I recall Cross, you were given one thousand men to capture and hold Silver Rock," General LeCroix interrupted, "Before our arrival, the city was held by a ragtag group of Appolyon's fanatics. Do you mean to tell us that you lost nearly half your force against those warmongering heretics?"

"LeCroix," The Lord Warden spoke sharply, "Now is not the time to be abrasive. If you've a grievance with any of us, I advise you to take it up on your own time. Cross?"

"Thank you, my Lord. As I was saying, though we sustained heavy losses during the fortress siege, as well as defending Silver Rock from the Chosen forces to the east, we now have full control over the region, not just the town. Taking into account the smaller hamlets and wandering folk within the province, I would say we could recruit another five hundred or so through volunteers alone."

"What makes you so sure?" The Lord Warden seemed uncertain of that, "War is not a profession many would consider savory."

"Patriotism, my Lord," another of the generals, O'Flannery, spoke up. "With the slant-eyes to the east and the savages coming down from the north, a new generation of young men is champing at the bit to defend what's theirs from the invaders. It's the one advantage to defending against an outside attacker; no one wants to cede their homeland to foreign powers."

"And," General Lassiter added, "That five hundred could be added to even further if we add a mandatory draft. I couldn't give exact numbers, but push the new recruit coming in to about seven hundred or so!"

"I don't like the idea of it, but desperate times call for desperate measures. If it becomes necessary, I will make the decision. Until then, let us see what we can muster on passion alone," The Warden conceded. "So, if we take stock of all of our territories combined, that gives us both the Blackstone Keep and surrounding countryside, as well as Silver Rock and its countryside."

"Do not forget, my Lord, that we have also cleared the roads between the two provinces; Silver Rock and Blackstone are neighbors, which gives us a much more solid sphere of influence."

"Taking all of this into account, gentlemen, what does that give us in terms of total numbers?"

A few moments of murmuring from the assembled generals, and I exchanged glances with Stone; this life definitely wasn't for me. Having to consult with a group of argumentative, self-righteous knights before making every single decision didn's strike me as something that anyone could find any joy in, and the concept of seeking out political power lost much of its luster when exposed to the bureaucratic nightmare that actually composed much of the Iron Legion's inner workings…

"I would put our total amassed forces at a little over two thousand soldiers strong, not including the more elite orders. That is to say, two thousand strong in footmen, added to by each of our own carer soldiers. Add to that the number's we can raise through recruitment within the next few months, and I'd say between the two provinces we could have a force of nearly three thousand strong," Cross finally spoke up, and there was a low grumbling sound.

"That isn't enough," The Warden leaned back in his chair, resting a hand beneath his chin, "Not enough to mount a full crusade to try and reclaim our lands from our opponents…"

"But enough to take one more province," LeCroix interrupted, "An action which, I must say I have to recommend. Nothing can be gained by simply laying about and doing nothing!"

"Do not be so hasty," another of the men, one whom had been quiet up until now, finally spoke. I didn't know his name. "You've all considered the number of men we can arm ourselves with, but what about the military costs? Arming, training and feeding even a force of merely three thousand is going to take time, manpower, and more steel than the coffers in both Blackstone and Silver Rock can provide. Additional tithes from the peasantry could lead to desertion of our own men or even open rebellion."

"He is right," Cross agreed, "We will not be able to move to take another major province for many months, perhaps even a full season…"

"But time is not on our side," O'Flannery argued, "My Lord, there is a very delicate balance between biding one's time in preparation of action, and complicity in the attacks from our enemies!"

Many of the generals were beginning to shout, and I saw Lassiter rise to his feet, his bodyguards bristling and reaching for weapons. I looked to Stone, who shook his head and kept his flail tucked firmly in his belt. I followed suit, determined to let my superior lead by example and follow what he did to the letter.

"There's a solution none of you are seeing," The Lord Warden began quietly, and waited until the room started to settle, allowing the generals to slowly recognize that he was awaiting their obedience and silence with silent resignation. "Taking a major province, one that would provide greater economical advantages to our cause, is completely out of the question, as is the assault on any of the positions to our north. Directly fighting the Viking armies would be suicide with winter setting in soon. And we cannot fight the samurai from their cities across the ocean."

"What will we do, then?"

"We will take a smaller province, to the east, along the coastline. Kilvarough, I think, should be our next target."

"Kilvarough?" Lassiter seemed confused, "It's practically worthless; a fishing town and a harbor, and seafaring trade has all but ceased thanks to the wars…"

"Perhaps, but the harbors there also provide the Chosen Imperial Navy a foothold on our lands to attack Silver Rock directly. If we can take the city and harbor, it won't add very much to the land or resources at our disposal, but wil create a buffer zone between our territory and where the samurai can attack from. Without a proper naval base on our coastline, they will have one less place to stage their invasion."

"And recall that the Dawn Empire have Valkenheim to worry about as well," LeCroix added helpfully, "They control much of Ashfeld's provinces compared to either us or the Vikings, but winter is the domain of the northmen, and the samurai, in surrounding us, have unwittingly created a barrier between our provinces and the Vikings. We can use this winter as an opportunity to raise up a greater army while our opponents fight amongst themselves!"

"And with Kilavarough under our control, the Chosen will not have a steady influx of reinforcements," Cross finished, and looked to the Lord Warden. "Your reputation is clearly well-earned, my Lord," he said gratefully, "How long will it be until you wish for us to launch our assault on the harbor?"

The Lord Warden considered. "I will be returning to Blackstone within the fortnight. Most of my garrison will remain there with me, rather unfortunately. Morale is low, and the people require my presence to govern internal affairs. I will leave the preparations of this campaign to you, General Cross, and you, General O'Flannery. Kilvarough is not large; you will take the city utilizing your own personal troops. The rest of you are to set about preparing a more solid defense to all of our borders and prepare to set in for the winter. I want trenches, breastworks, fully armed and prepared regiments ready to defend against possible attack. LeCroix and Lassiter, the two of you will handle recruitment, appoint vassals to go out among the people and find volunteers. By spring, I hope to have an entire army assembled between Blackstone and Silver Rock. You have your orders, gentlemen, adjourned!"

The Lord Warden banged his sword pommel twice against the table, making me start, and all of the men rose to their feet. General Cross turned to me and Stone, nodding in approval.

"You kept your mouth shut, Convict, smart move. I know it can be tempting to try and get a word in edgewise, but that isn't he role of a general's guardians. Stone you're to remain here with me, I wish to discuss our plans for the Kilvarough campaign with Lord O'Flannery. Convict, you're dismissed."

I didn't even have time to form my thoughts into words, instead dropping to a knee for a brief moment as a sign of respect, before turning about and leaving the room amid those generals heading for the door. To be entirely honest, I hadn't much cared for that whole experience, and could have done without listening to the generals bicker for nearly three hours.

I was much more at home, I decided, among my own lowly brethren in the ranks of the soldiers. As it was, I had been on leave yesterday, and spent all morning today as General Cross's personal escort, leaving no time for drills or personal training. Many men would consider an excuse to get out of drills a great boon, and I had thought that as well for a time, but with Cross heading the Kilvarough campaign, I would be seeing combat again very soon. If I took more than a single day to rest and recover from my injuries, I'd start to atrophy as a result. Certainly my wounds still hurt, and there was a very real risk of my stitches breaking open if I did anything too strenuous, but my limp had lessened considerably after a good night's sleep, and my shoulder only really hurt when I flexed the arm too suddenly. By the time we left to begin the campaign, I would need to be ready for combat, and there was no better time but now to prepare.

"You're in a hurry," a voice over my shoulder as I strode through the keep's narrow halls, and I jumped, caught off guard. I hadn't heard anyone come up behind me, but that was to be expected once I saw who it was.

The Peacekeeper from yesterday, the one who'd seen me amid the crowd and seemed to lock eyes with me, was standing at my shoulder, looking at me from under her mask with undisguised curiosity. I shuffled my feet nervously, unsure of what to say. I could talk to Maria just fine, I'd known her since she'd arrested me way back when. This strange woman was unfamiliar territory, and Peacekeepers were a tricky lot to deal with. To be honest, I couldn't really be sure it was the same Peacekeeper I'd seen the other day, they rarely retained distinguishing marks on their equipment, but this one sported a miniature lion crest at the front of her breastplate, which had caught my eye yesterday.

"Can I… help you?" I started lamely, wondering if I had made that sound too confrontational…

She laughed, to my surprise, and looked me up and down, sizing me up. I reddened beneath my helmet. "My, a Conqueror with manners, that's new. I'm Mercy, by the way, though I don't know your name."

I nearly choked on my own breath, had she truly just given me her name? Peacekeepers rarely did that… unless it wasn't her real name… it struck me that I had simply stood there like a stump without speaking, and I coughed awkwardly.

"I'm… uh… Convict," I managed, deciding that my real name didn't much matter either.

"Interesting name, Convict," Mercy teased, "I get the feeling it's not the one your mother gave you."

"It's what folk call me these days," I replied, beginning to get my feet under me again. She was a playful sort, this one. "What do you want with me?" I started walking again, forcing her to fall into step beside me.

"Let's say you… caught me eye the other day," she said, taking two steps for my every one. I was taller than her by a full head, though I was sure that she could gut me in seconds if it struck her fancy. "Who do you think had you attend this meeting in the fist place. I recommended you for the position, you know."

"Why?" I was starting to get suspicious, Peacekeepers didn't do anything without a motive.

"I told you, you interest me, and I'll be the first to admit, I already knew who you were, Convict. We Peacekeepers stay in touch, you understand. I'd heard there was a newly appointed Conqueror, and once I got a look at your face, curiosity just took hold."

"Curiosity of what nature?"

She grabbed my shoulder, dragged me off-balance and pshed by back against the wall. We had ended up in a less travelled corridor of the keep, and now her gloved hands were resting on my chest. I felt my face grow hot.

"Sensual," she said softly, and I swallowed hard…

Mercy laughed, letting me go and stepping back, "Oh that is funny. Have I embarrassed you, soldier boy?"

I flushed again, this time in irritation, "I don't have time for this," I told her, and started off again, determined not to put up with any more of this. I felt like quite the fool, to be honest.

"Well that's a shame," Mercy called after me, "But you know we'll be seeing more of each other. I'm serving under General O'Flannery, so Kilvarough will be our joint conquest. We can talk more later."

I was rather determined not to talk to her again, though it was difficult to say what about that particular Peacekeeper had gotten so easily under my skin. I was already in full kit, so didn't bother to stop at the barracks while I made my way to the training grounds. I ended up bursting my stitches anyways before the day was out.


	4. Chapter 4

I was ready to collapse with exhaustion; the past few hours had ben merciless, with Stone having us running drill and independent training bouts without recourse. It wouldn't have been nearly so bad if he didn't insist upon everyone remaining in full kit to do it.

Sweat drenched my tabard even through the thick brigandine and made the uncomfortable armor even harder to wear as I slowed from a jog to an unsteady walk. The march to Kilavarough would begin in a few days, and we'd been preparing ourselves both for the long haul there and the siege that would follow. I couldn't fault Stone for wanting to train us to our best, but was it wise to run your troops ragged this close to the beginning of a campaign march?

"Convict!" I heard Stone shout out at me from the other side of the marching grounds, "The hell are you slowing down for?!"

"Catching my breath… sir!" I hollered back in between pants. I'd already run several laps around the town just this afternoon and had been forced to go even further than our footmen thanks to my superior rank. Apparently, the perks of being promoted to Conqueror included having to train twice as hard as everyone else.

"Then run faster, you'll never catch it like that!" he roared back at me, and I held back a groan as I picked up my pace. My legs ached, and my breathing was too loud inside my helmet, but insubordination had consequences I wasn't particularly interested in dealing with, so it would be best not to complain.

I peered out at the marching grounds, trying to take my mind off of my own troubles by observing someone else's. The footmen were lined up in tight formation, drilling practiced, synchronized movements to the tune of fife and drum. The force was spread out into groups of one hundred men each, square formations of shield-bearing pikemen supported from behind, creating an impenetrable wall from the front, while those behind them raised their own shields to protect the formation from attacks coming from above. The "horns" of the legion formed protective spurs along the flanks, bristling with swords, while ranks of bowmen would provide covering fire from the rear. It was a good formation for open battle on fields or plains, but I was uncertain how well it would perform in urban warfare, especially in the narrow streets of Kilavarough…

The career soldiers, elites like me, were busy with individual training, pairing up with sparring partners to hone their skills in single combat. Those who tired of that trained their bodies instead, like I was doing, running laps, or lifting heavy weights, or practicing unarmed combat in a ring dug into the dirt.

I should have been doing that instead of this pointless running. I was already a fast runner, it came with the trade, easily able to outstrip even a few Peacekeepers while in full armor. I was certain that, unencumbered, I would leave behind any pursuer who tried to best me in pure speed. Endurance could use some work, I supposed, but that was what the flail was for. As confident as I was in my ability to outrun my enemies, that wouldn't do me much good on the battlefield.

I watched as Alexander Cordet struck a heavy wooden practice stick against a fellow Lawbringer's helmet and sent the poor man sprawling. The sticks were weighted to match the heft of an actual polearm without the deadly business end, but being hit by one tended to hurt, even in the Lawbringers' specially crafted plate. Perhaps I didn't want to train in single combat after all… if I went up against Cordet, I was pretty sure he'd have no trouble at all putting me on the ground. The man he'd been fighting was bigger than I was, and Cordet was bigger still. He'd been in the army for years now, far as I could tell, and had proven his worth time and time again on the battlefield. An old adage cautioned that a fellow ought to fear an old man in a trade where men die young… and Cordet was nearly forty. He'd been offered officer positions before, ones that he would have been wise to accept by anyone else's standards, but Cordet didn't see things the way most of us did.

"Join the officers?" he was often heard to scoff, "and end up relegated to some cushy command far away from the front? Wouldn't dream of it!"

A few of us had tried to point out that some commanders, like Cross and Stone, actually still fought on the front with us grunts, but he would usually counter by claiming that the responsibility was simply too much for him to handle. Few of us believed him, but it wasn't as though we could force him to accept, so he remained among us humble amateurs.

I felt a tingling on the back of my neck and realized that I was being watched again. Hoping it wasn't who I thought it was, I'd managed to avoid her nearly all month, I tried to crane my head to see behind me without slowing my pace again, and nearly lost my footing in the process. I staggered, caught myself, and rose back up to receive a stout wooden waster directly in my face.

"Oh, heads up," Mercy taunted me as the waster very nearly made me fall over again. She'd somehow managed to get in front of me while I'd been looking over my shoulder and had swung the wooden rod directly at my head.

"The hell was that for?" I grunted, putting a hand out to steady myself as my ears rang. Even with the added protection of my helmet, that had hurt… rather a lot.

"You weren't paying attention," she said, twirling the waster in her hand as she paced in front of me. "Too busy daydreaming to notice that I was right behind you. You know what happens to a soldier whose head is in the clouds?" she levelled the waster directly at my chest and prodded me once with it. "He ends up dead."

I shook my head incredulously, was she serious? "On the battlefield, maybe, but not here. What do you want, anyways? Here to taunt me some more, or did you actually need something?" That stunt she had pulled back when we'd first met had left me a bit rattled, and I didn't want to give her the chance to do something similar this time. Best to keep this meeting brief and get back to my training.

"Stone's had you running all day while the rest of _us_ have been actually fighting. Do you expect to be able to run to victory at Kilavarough? Or maybe you plan on running away?"

"I'm doing what I'm told, that's all. I'll fight as well as I ever do, now will you go away?"

She prodded me again with the waster, "Careful with that tone; I'm still your superior, you know. In any case, fighting as well as you ever do isn't going to be good enough. You've impressed some of the other lieutenants by staying alive this long, but a real Conqueror wouldn't end up on the ground the moment two of the enemy gang up on him. What you need is to improve."

I could see where this was going, and I had no intention of letting Mercy get an excuse to knock me around for the next hour or so. "Then I'll spar with Cordet, or some of the other soldiers. No need for an important Lieutenant like you to lower herself to my level, right?"

Mercy chuckled, and I frowned, "Nice try, Convict. I told you that you interested me, and you do, but not as you are now. No, I'm interested in the potential I can see in you, and I'm not the only one. The Lord Warden saw you too, on the day we rode into town, all scarred and brooding in the shadows."

That got my attention, the Lord Warden himself had made note of me? On his way into Silver Rock, his visor had obscured his eyes, so I hadn't been able to tell where it was he was looking, but… had I really caught his attention?

"…Which is why he sent me to oversee your tutelage personally."

"My tutelage?"

"Your training, studies, learning, apprenticeship, shall I go on?"

There didn't seem like much way to avoid this if the Lord Warden himself had requested it, though I was still a bit overwhelmed that had personally taken an interest in my military career. It was all at once both flattering and daunting to think that someone as skilled and renowned as him had seen greatness in a thief turned conscript.

Mercy tossed me something; a short wooden rod with a length of rope tied to one end, and a thick knot at the end of the rope. Nobody carved practice flails the way they did wasters, so this would have to do as far as training bouts went. I had my shield with me already and made to unsling it from my shoulder.

"No, we start without the shield," Mercy told me, walking off of the track and finding a bare patch of dirt for us to fight on.

"The flail isn't an effective weapon without a means of defense, though…" I started, but Mercy cut me off.

"Well, that sounds like your problem, doesn't it?" Mercy told me, "Now drop it."

I didn't move, and the waster knocked the shield hard enough to wrench my arm back painfully. That had been foolish, antagonizing her wouldn't get me anywhere, but that smug and superior demeanor of hers gave me the instinctual desire to be insubordinate. I did as I was told and dropped the shield, letting it fall to the grass and rotating my shoulder a few times until that painful, stretched feeling wore off in my arm.

"And we begin," Mercy told me, now holding a second, dagger-sized waster in her offhand. Crouching low, she started at me before I had the time to prepare myself. Awkward without my shield, I swung the flail wide to try and keep her at bay, remembering to never try to stop the flail's movement. Mercy stopped, pivoted, circled around to my left and tried to stick her longer waster through the arc of my swing and catch the chain of the flail. Her timing was off by a fraction, and I was able to skitter backwards a step, before whipping the flail up over my head and bringing it down at her. Another bad decision, as Mercy sidestepped, and I was left overextended, the head of the flail thudding into the dirt. I let go, releasing my only weapon and hurling myself away from Mercy as the waster swiped at the spot I'd just been.

She was already coming after me as I rolled and came up on a knee, mind racing. I wasn't thinking straight, I was flustered and uneasy, and fighting without my shield had crippled me heavily. I needed to find a way to get the practice flail back and counterattack, but with the way I'd dodged, the Peacekeeper stood between me and it. I let out a long, slow breath, and reminded myself to calm my nerves, rising to my feet as she advanced on me.

A lazy swipe from the longer stick and I ducked, while Mercy drove in suddenly, jabbing with the shorter stick towards the gap under my arm in the brigandine. I dropped to the ground to avoid it and swept a leg at her to try and uproot her base. It was a move I'd seen the slant-eyes use against us before, and it was brutally effective against top-heavy foes without a solid base. Mercy was not such an opponent, hopping nimbly over my sweep and drying to angle her weapon to thrust down at me. I rolled onto my shoulder as she thrusted and let the tip of the stick bury itself in the dirt just beside my head. Mercy wrenched the hilt sideways and dove on top of me, driving the stick down across my neck, while I tried to wrest it and her off with both arms.

"Disappointing," she hissed through her mask, "I expected better. This bout is over, and you've lost."

 _Have I?_ I wondered, and in seconds I had an idea. Mercy's left hand, the hand with the short stick, was braced against the longer waster, pressing down towards my neck. My arms were supporting her full weight, so a shift in balance…

I threw my body to the side, looping an ankle around her leg and bucking with my hips to roll us over. As she weight came off of my arms, I grabbed at her wrist, and managed to wrest the short stick out of her hand, shoving her off of me and scrambling to my feet. Mercy was laughing.

"Now that's more like it!" she told me, and sprang again, alternating quick slashes with the very end of her weapon to keep me on edge. I was doing better; I'd managed to arm myself and take away one of her weapons, but I was still at a massive disadvantage. I was armed, certainly, but with such a short stick, I would have to get in close to actually strike her with it. If I could find a way to close the distance, or get around her and retrieve the practice flail…

I switched the stick to mantis grip, holding it backhand to increase its effectiveness in hooking and parrying, then shunted aside three of her faster swings, giving ground. A few of the other career soldiers had stopped what they were doing to watch; it was rare indeed to see a Peacekeeper training alongside us common soldiers, their secret techniques and traditions just that, secret.

I started to circle her, feigning aggression to take Mrcy's attention off of her surroundings and force her to defend. The short dowel rod was similar to a knife in how it handled, and that was a weapon I was good with, better than most. Quick darts in, alternating slashes and low kicks to peel apart her base before leaping back out, forcing her to chase me before I swept in from a different angle.

"It's a pity that men can't become Peacekeepers," Mercy told me as I drew close and hooked her waster between my rod and wrist, "Your knifework is superb… much better than anything else you've displayed thus far!"

I didn't bother to respond to her mocking, focusing on the fight. There were no stakes her, nothing to lose or gain if I beat her or lost, but all her patronizing had woken up my more competitive side, and while I wasn't certain I was going to beat her, I could make her fight for every second.

The flail was lying in the grass just behind me, and Mercy seemed to notice what I'd done for the first time, inclining her head just a fraction, perhaps in approval? Now came the tricky part: the moment I stooped to pick it up, she'd be on me, and I wouldn't have time to build momentum with the flail to really control it. I had the short waster still, but while I could drag the fight on with it, I couldn't win.

I waited, baiting her to attack, to show some aggression, and Mercy crept forwards. She knew I wasn't stupid, expected a trap of some kind, but probably wasn't looking for the signs of what I was about to do. Throwing away your only weapon was widely considered to be suicide, but if it would buy me time to scoo u the flail and attack with my head n straight, I may just stand a chance of winning this…

I drew my arm back and hurled the rod at Mercy, not bothering to look and see if I'd struck home as I crouched, lifted the flail from the grass and darted forwards. My wrist started to make quick circles, and the knot at the end of the rope whirred satisfyingly through the air. Mercy had swatted aside the short waster with her longer one, and was on the defensive now, giving ground as I alternated swings in a figure eight pattern, continuing the circle, never letting up or allowing the flail to slow for even an instant. Top, left, left, right, top, down, right, top, left…

Some she was able to dodge, others she parried, but now that the head of the flail was moving, it was too fast and had too much momentum for her to keep up. A few of my fellow soldiers were whooping and cheering for me, but something felt wrong… even though I couldn't see her face under the mask, I felt like she was smirking at me, like there was something she knew that I didn't…

My next swing went wide as Mercy stopped retreating, and jammed her waster into the rope, wrapping the flail head around her weapon and locking us together. I was stronger, and I hauled on the handle, trying to pull her off balance so I could strike with my offhand and free my weapon while she was stunned. She'd been expecting that, and stepped in expertly, twisting to gain leverage on both my weapon and hers, before slamming the pommel of the waster against my visor.

I felt my legs crumple beneath me as my vision went red for just a moment. A fresh flower of pain bloomed in my forehead, and my hands went u to try and loosen the straps of my helmet, tot take it off and try to relieve the sudden ringing that filled my ears… Mercy's boot connected with my chest, and I tumbled onto my back, the flail jerked out of my hand. As I started to get my wits back, I noted the way her waster was angled at my neck, between helmet and brigandine, while her boot remained planted on my chest.

"Ow," I groaned, "I suppose I deserved that?"

"You weren't half-bad, not with a knife at least, but you're too reliant on your shield when it comes to flail work."

"There aren't any manuals or texts on fighting with one. It isn't like swordsmanship," I tried to argue, but Mercy cut me off.

"Once you've learned how to fight effectively without a shield, you'll be more prepared to survive if your disarmed or taken by surprise. Now get up, we're trying again."

I wisely held back another groan of complaint and heaved my aching body off the ground, retrieving the practice flail despite the way my head was throbbing. Tonight was going to long and uncomfortable, and tomorrow offered only more of this.


	5. Chapter 5

Kilvarough, the city by the sea. The time had come for the beginning of our campaign, and both General Cross and O'Flannery had assembled their forces at Silver Rock. Moving an army was difficult to do covertly, and we were certain that the Chosen had caught wind that we were preparing to march. The question they wouldn't be able to answer was where we would be marching to. By the time our enemies had figured out where we were going, it would be too late to send reinforcements to bolster their garrison at Kilvarough. If we could take the harbor and hold it against incoming Samurai ships, we would be able to heavily cripple their remaining war effort here in Ashfeld.

Cross's half of the attack force consisted of fifteen hundred footmen and five hundred career soldiers like me, while O'Flannery had brought exactly one thousand footmen and one thousand career soldiers. In total, we numbered just a bit shy of thirty-five hundred, a sizeable number of soldiers to take a small provincial city like Kilvarough. There hadn't been time to engineer and construct siege engines, but Kilvarough's defenses had always been geared more towards attacks coming from the sea than ones coming from our own lands.

We marched in formation in case of raids from either samurai hoping to hamper our progress or wandering warbands from Valkenheim who had managed to slip stealthily through the Chosen-occupied provinces and made their way here. Thus far fortune had been with us, and nothing untoward had crossed our path since we'd embarked that morning. Winter was on its way, but the weather hadn't gone frigid yet, and the sun was shining merrily in the sky above us.

I marched alongside my battalion, made up of a mix of career soldiers and footmen, the latter under the individual command of the former. I hadn't been given jurisdiction over any of our men, but I didn't hold it against Cross; I was untested as a leader and hadn't been given an opportunity to prove myself in that regard. I didn't mind, I worked better with only myself to worry about anyways.

Ahead of me, the long column of soldiers spread out, stretching like a massive iron serpent along the road to the sea. The landscape between Silver Rock and Kilvarough was a lowland of long plains, dotted here and there with great boulders and debris left behind from the Cataclysm. When the world had fallen apart, so the stories said, the earth had bucked and shaken, the soil splitting apart and dropping great chunks of earth down into enormous chasms that opened in the ground. Mountains and castles alike had crumbled, oceans ran dry as the water drained into new basins, while rivers had flooded and lightning storms scorched the world with what could only be described as the fury of God himself. According to the preachers, the Cataclysm was a warning from Heaven, a warning to repent form our ruinous nature and make peace with one another. I didn't much care for those sorts of sermons, life was simpler without any sort of higher power involved, but there wasn't anything to be gained by trying to denounce them, so I had always let it lie.

The Cataclysm. It had been over a hundred years ago, and I was under the impression that the entire world had been affected by it. Ashfeld, or whatever our lands had been called before the Great Mountain spouted fire, had been ripped apart by it, and what remained of us had been forced to slowly pick up the pieces. It was common knowledge that we men of the west had once held sway over some enormous empire, and traces of that empire still remained in the far south, but up here, very little was left to clue us in on our own heritage. The constant wars since the Cataclysm hadn't helped us move forward insofar as our military, social or economic innovations, and I was of the opinion that we had actually backslid when the world broke. Old manuals of swordplay and battle formations had survived, certain schematics for machines of war as well, but our understanding of how they actually worked was flimsy at best. Old schools of fencing and weapons-work was all well and good, but the actual written histories of our people had been all but lost. What we still had were tales passed down by word of mouth, and what amounted to a few archived texts written in a dialect that was difficult to decipher.

I sighed and shook myself out of my thoughts, wiping the sweat off of my brow. There was no point in dressing in full kit during the march to Kilvarough; we would fully prepare for battle when we got a little closer, and so for now I carried most of my equipment on my back. Rations, medical supplies and water were all relegated to carts and wagons we'd appropriated from Silver Rock, to the displeasure of the locals, but all would be paid back in full with the spoils we collected from Kilvarough. Rumours had circulated the town and barracks in the days before our departure. Rumours that the Chosen troops on the coast had stored all manner of incredible treasures and vast collections of steel in the vaults there, waiting to be claimed when the city was ours. I had half a mind to scoff at stories like those, the Chosen would have guarded such riches more heavily if they really were there, but then again, there was no real way to know for sure.

My back ached, and I shifted the bundle from one shoulder to the other. I pitied the Lawbringers on days like these, when the bright sun and their heavier equipment made marching even more of a paint than it already was. My burden was no picnic either, but at least I didn't have several kilos of thick plate and a halberd balanced precariously on my back. For me, helmet, shield and pauldrons were wrapped in an oilcloth and tied around with my flail's chain. I could probably have fit my brigandine in the sack as well, but I had opted to just wear it instead. There was always the chance that we could be attacked on the road, and I would want to have at least some degree of protection just in case.

We'd all been conditioned extensively to march for hours on end without complaint, but even after just half a day my legs were starting to burn. In my defense, Mercy had worked me to the bone every day preceding our departure from Silver Rock, and each of our sessions had ended with me bruised and sore in the dirt while she danced about lightly on her feet. My first bout with her had been my most successful, and it seemed that after witnessing how good I was with a knife, the Peacekeeper had decided that playtime was over. The change had been noticeable almost instantly, with her speed increasing to the point where I was beaten in seconds without my shield. Aside from just that, her swordplay had grown more confusing, as she had switched styles and stances on a whim to trip me up before that solid waster had cracked into my ribs over and over again. Looking back, I was lucky that my wounds from the last battle hadn't acted up while we'd sparred; I had healed nicely since then and lost the stitches, but whether or not I was actually battle-ready remained to be seen.

Alexander Cordet fell into step beside me, somehow managing to sneak up on me despite his clanking satchel of heavy armor and the noisy halberd that pumped against his back with every stride.

"So, Convict, training one on one with a Peacekeeper, eh? What do you make of it?"

I started, uncertain of what to say next. It was odd for such a newly promoted career soldier to get special attention like I had, but I hadn't really thought much of it at the time. It dawned on me that Mercy's attention may have also garnered me the distaste of some of my peers. I would have to tread cautiously when dealing with my fellows.

"Honestly I wish I wasn't," I replied truthfully, "I wouldn't have half the bruises I do now if it wasn't for her."

Cordet raised an eyebrow at me quizzically, "Oh? So you don't feel happy at all to have gained the attention of the Lord Warden himself? How uncharacteristically flippant."

I swallowed hard, "It's not that, I do feel flattered, it's just a lot of pressure. You'd know about that, wouldn't you?"

Cordet smiled and I let out a small sigh of relief; this was not a man I wanted as my enemy. "Indeed. When I was a younger man I found myself in much the same position you're in now. 'Course they never sent a Peacekeeper to train me."

"I do find it perplexing. The secrets of their order are so well kept… wouldn't Mercy's efforts to teach me risk compromising those secrets?"

"It's possible, I suppose, though unlikely. It does seem like a waste of manpower, though."

"Pardon?" Was he trying to insult me?

"Oh, not in the way you're thinking, clearly the Lord Warden sees you as something worth investing in, but why a Peacekeeper? He could have just as easily sent any number of Knights with more men to spare. The Peacekeepers are sparsely populated; every single one needs to be utilized to her fullest potential."

I hadn't known that. Thanks to their anonymity, it was always hard to tell if you had seen the same Peacekeeper more than once, which did a pretty good job of concealing how many of them were really in the field at once. Cordet made an excellent point, why had the Lord Warden made a point of assigning Mercy to me? Surely her expertise could have been used somewhere else?

"Hmm…" I mumbled to myself, nearly losing my wits in my own thoughts until Cordet managed spoke up again.

"So, you seen her face?"

I started, "No, when would I have managed to get her helmet off?"

Cordet chuckled, "Oh, I see. Well don't you worry, that teacher-student bond can get real strong over enough time. I reckon you'll end up seein' a lot more than just her face before long!"

The realization of what he was talking about suddenly clicked in my head, and I nearly tripped over my own boots and fell over in shock.

"Um, no, I don't think you… that is I… well because she doesn't… and I don't… you're jumping to a lot of conclusions," If finished lamely, but Cordet was too busy laughing to really hear me. I let my shoulders slump miserably; was that was the other soldiers thought was going to happen between Mercy and I? I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it, but hell, I didn't really know anything about her, and she'd been nothing if irritating in the short time since we'd met. Judging by her voice and experience, she was older than me, too. By my own personal preference, I didn't jump much for older ladies, especially not ones who seemed to be so immensely tickled by seeing me in pain.

Cordet had split off from me to go talk to someone else, and I relapsed into my own thoughts again. At least now I knew what the rest of my companions thought about me… I trudged along, hefting my bundle higher on my back to try and ease some of the weight. Th sun had been pleasant enough when we'd started our march in the morning, but it was just past noon now, and with that bright orb sweltering overhead, the heat was beginning to sap my strength. Times like these made me wish winter would hurry up and arrive quicker, or at the very least that some thick, heavy clouds might amble along to block the harsh sunlight. No such luck, though, the sky was clear and blue on this autumn day, and t would be some weeks before the first hint of snowfall arrived here in Ashfeld.

In the days leading up the march, heavy rainfalls had soaked the earth and left the roads sticky swamps of cloying soil that clung to our boots as we walked and made every step a struggle. Somehow the air felt pregnant with too much moisture, and despite the heat of the sun, my clothes were damp beneath my brigandine from a combination of sweat and water. My stomach grumbled irritably at me to feed it, and I did my best to shove the thoughts of a hot meal and a long bath out of my head; this was a soldier's life, and luxuries like those were far and few in between for men like us.

To try and take my mind off of all my own discomfort, I tried to just let my mind wander, and daydream the hours through until the officers eventually called for us to make camp for the night. My thoughts drifted back towards what Cordet had said about the Peacekeepers and their limited numbers. Something about that didn't add up, and both my interest and suspicion had been piqued. The Lord Warden may have ben able to recognize the potential of an excellent warrior in the making, but the Peacekeepers weren't completely beholden to him in all regards. Distribution of their agents was handle internally, like most of their affairs, and while they'd follow most orders given by the ruling lord of a province or fief, more complex or personalized requests were something that needed to be requested from the Church and agreed upon by the Peacekeepers themselves, the highest ordained power in the fief, and the local warlord in question. Would it have made any kind of sense for the Lord Warden to have gone through all that bureaucratic hassle just to ensure that one of his men was partnered with a specific teacher? Even more perplexing was the fact that the Lord Warden had only taken notice of me about a day before Mercy was assigned to me, so there wasn't a very good chance for him to have communed with both other parties and received word back that he could assign Mercy whatever job he wished… So, did that mean that the two of them were working outside of the Church's jurisdiction? Or that Mercy had prioritized the Lord Warden's orders over the tenets of her own order of Knights?

At the crux of it all was me, a criminal turned conscript turned Conqueror, and not exactly a stellar one at that. I'd made it as far as I had by surviving, not by thriving, and I had the scars to prove it. Stone was a far deadlier fighter than I was with the flail, and Mercy far outclassed me with the knife, my own weapon of choice. If there was some hidden skill I possessed that would make the investment worth it, I couldn't see it. Something bigger had to be at play here, something that went beyond just me and beyond just our struggle against the Chosen and the Warborn… what on Earth was going on inside the Lord Warden's head?

The thoughts whirled around my head for the rest of the afternoon, as we walked onwards and onwards, each step bringing us that much closer to Kilvarough and the battle that awaited us there. We would likely arrive sometime midmorning tomorrow, and begin our assault that evening, after resting, recovering and preparing for battle for most of the afternoon. It would be a bit of a tradeoff; if we attacked as soon as our forces were within range of Kilvarough, we would have the element of surprise on our side, but our own men would be exhausted from marching and strung out in our column down the road. It was better to amass all our troops into formation outside the city before making our initial assault. The Chosen would have some time to prepare defenses, but they wouldn't be able to summon anyone to come to their aid until long after the battle itself. Their numbers and the quality of their soldiers was unknown to us for now, at least exact measurements, but Lord O'Flannery and General Cross had agreed that the garrison in the city would not be equal to our force, and we would have a significant numbers advantage over our foes. That was good; Kilvarough might not have been designed to withstand siege from land, but that didn't mean it couldn't do it if the defenders were clever and ruthless in their methods. The city was still protected with low walls dotted with watchtowers from which enemy archers could pepper our ranks with arrows and stones. With the time they did have to prepare themselves, the Chosen could improvise with dug trenches and breastworks to slow our advance and pick off a good number of our men before we even reached the city proper. I'd been to Kilvarough once before when I'd been a burglar, and remembered that the city gates themselves were heavy oaken doors reinforced with steel bars, and a large black iron portcullis mechanism had been installed in a slot under the earth to raise up and prevent entry. Without any full-on siege engines to break through the walls or gates, we'd need to rely on jury-rigged ladders and ropes to scale the walls and push the enemy back, giving ourselves a foothold on the ramparts before pushing to the city proper.

None of this was of real consequence to me. The tactics weren't my concern, I figured, it would just be a matter of keeping my shield up to avoid getting skewered with arrows, and somehow getting onto the walls without being drenched in boiling oil or pelted with boulders or meeting any other nasty fate that the Samurai could throw at me. _Focus on keeping yourself alive,_ I reminded myself, trying to focus on the fact that regardless of how important the Lord Warden seemed to think I might be, I was still just one man. My life or death wouldn't determine the tide of the battle alone. I hunched my shoulders and soldiered on, feeling more than just the weight of my equipment upon my shoulders.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey, so before we start the actual chapter, I just wanted to take the time to say thanks for continuing to support "Another Man's War" with your patronage. When I first started writing it I didn't think it was going to be read by so many people, but I checked the views the other day and over 200 people have taken a look. Which is kinda mind-blowing. I also wanted to let you all know that I'm really sorry about the slow uploads, but life stuff has made finding time to write really difficult, especially since I want to make sure I'm putting out my best work and not just rushing through chapters for the sake of having something. Unfortunately, the upload schedule isn't going to get any more consistent any time soon, for reasons that shall remain undisclosed. So, I'm sorry for that. In any case, please enjoy, and know that your presence here is a big factor in what keeps me writing.

My entire arm reverberated as three hard impacts slammed into my shield. I'd raised it over my head just in the nick of time as the Samurai had unleashed a hail of arrows down from Kilvarough's walls onto our attacking army. Our own archers were positioned in our rear ranks behind the breastworks, trying their damnedest to clear the ramparts, but it was much easier for the enemy to fire volleys down at us than it was for our men to fire up at them. In the meantime, legions of our footmen had charged forward bearing ladders and ropes, shielded by us career soldiers as they made a break for the walls. The massive oaken gates weren't opening any time soon, and while oilskins and pitch-soaked arrows would make short work of them, dismantling the city's best defense would seriously work against us in keeping the city after we took it.

I'd been positioned near the rear ranks as well, more by chance than anything else, and could see that plenty of the other battalions had already reached the base of the wall. I'd been meant to rendezvous with Stone and the rest of my team before the battle had begun, but I'd lost them quickly in the confusion. All around me screams of the dying and the wounded filled my ears, and I tried to focus instead on the sound of my own breathing inside the restrictive helmet.

I staggered as an arrow glanced off the wide brim of my iron cap, and saw the world tilt sickeningly on its side. Taking a few short steps to steady myself, I shook off the dizzy spell that had accompanied the blow and started forwards again, flail clutched tightly in ne hand while the other hefted my shield up in front of me to catch the incoming blows.

It felt as though hours had passed by the time I'd reached the base of the wall, where piles of corpses had begun to form from all the dead that had been hurled from the ramparts or sent tumbling from the siege ladders. The rank odor of piss and blood and other things I preferred not to think about filled my nose, and I sucked in great gulps of air through my mouth as my shaking hand grasped at the ladder rungs and began to climb. It was slow going, the men ahead of me clinging tenuously to the rungs and taking tentative steps upwards between volleys of enemy fire and onslaughts of thrown rocks. I climbed one-handed, keeping my shield over my head to ward off danger and taking cautious measured steps upwards. One at a time, I reminded myself, there was no reason to try and rush. We outnumbered the enemy and had already gained a slight foothold on the battlements further down the wall. The city's defense had weakened as they turned their attention to warding off those knights that had managed to get onto the wall and tried to fend them off. Their distraction gave us a better chance of pushing past their defense and clambering up onto the wall ourselves.

A slant-eye leaned over the parapet, a great boulder clutched in his hands, and slammed it down on the head of the man just above me. There was a sort of wet thump and a strangled cry before he crumpled off of the ladder, his body buffeting me roughly and nearly knocking me off of my perch. I grunted with effort, feet scrabbling for a foothold and my fingers beginning to ache as I gripped with my remaining hand as tightly as I could. The slant-eye hefted his boulder again, and as I regained my footing he let fly, hurling it down at me with all his strength. _Don't block, parry,_ my mind rushed through panicky thoughts, and I drew a circle in the air with my shield-arm, catching the weight of the falling stone and shifting the momentum of its motion. The force was still bruising, even through my shield and armor, but I retained my place on the ladder. I saw surprise in the slant-eye's face, what was visible beneath his screaming mask, and I wasted no more time.

I sprang up onto the wall, my legs still dangling off the side of the wall and grabbed ahold of the man's wooden chest piece with my free hand, hauling him forward and slamming his helmeted head into the edge of the wall once, twice, three times, before shoving him roughly backwards. His companions had noticed me, and were moving to intercept, but I'd bought enough time to scramble up over the wall and flop awkwardly onto the flags. The man I'd thrown was gripping a long-hafted spear and thrust it at me while I lay on the ground. I kicked the tip away and kicked again, warding him off. I made it to a knee when another slant-eye brought his wickedly curved sword down on me. His aim was just off and the blow glanced off of my pauldron. I surged to me feet, bringing my shield up in a devastating uppercut to stun him before letting the flail fly and crushing what remained of his head. The slant-eye with the pike had recovered and thrusted again, but I redirected the flail's momentum and struck the haft of his spear, snapping the sturdy wood like a twig. There was terror in his face as he fumbled for a sidearm, but I was faster than him. More and more of the Chosen soldiers rushed me, and I bellowed like an animal, sweeping the flail's chain at his knees to knock him down and then circling the head up and over to smash his chest to pulp through his flimsy armor.

The Chosen soldiers had discipline and training far superior to our drafted troops, but our people possessed superior metal in greater quantities, as well as the metalworking skills to put that higher-quality steel to good use. The Samurais' wooden and lacquered leather armor was almost useless, especially against something like the flail, which could provide lethal concussions even through Lawbringer plate. Our soldiers had begun to join me on the walls as I cleared out the enemy footmen nearby, and I noted that we weren't the only ones. The fighting was beginning to move down onto the stairways leading down into the city proper, and though large knots of Chosen warriors continued to hold out here on the walls, their defense of the ramparts had, for the most part, failed.

 _Get the gate open,_ the tactical part of my brain reminded me, and I took a look around during a lull in the fighting. I'd been to Kilvarough a few times before when I'd been a criminal, but didn't have the slightest idea where the gatehouse and mechanisms for the doors and portcullis might be located, nor how to operate them if I found them. But, if our men here within the city limits could get those gates open for the bulk of our heavy cavalry, the city would be ours and we'd push the Chosen out onto the wharfs, where they'd have no choice but to flee in their ships back to their stinking island.

My thoughts were interrupted by a shrill cry of outrage, and I looked to my left just in time to see one of those slant-eye women with the long-bladed spears neatly decapitating one of our hapless footmen. She was backed up by a good dozen of Samurai soldiers, and the men around me drew back from her in fear. I knew that I was the only career soldier on this part of the wall, and that her scream had been a challenge issued to me. Rolling my shoulders to appear as menacing and unworried about her as I could, I set the flail head in motion and moved forwards, noting how she matched my stride and pace. This would not be as easy as butchering foot soldiers; this was a highly trained and competent fighter I was facing, and I would need to fight clever and dirty if I was going to succeed. Her longer weapon gave her a great advantage over me, but between my shield and armor, she would have a much harder time actually drawing blood than I would. It would be a matter of fighting defensively, I decided, beginning to circle her counterclockwise. If I kept her back to the edge of the wall, there was a chance I could rush straight in and strike with my shield to knock her over the edge and win without delay. And if she proved savvy to that, I would at least be able to pressure her with the threat of falling while I worked on another means of victory. We stood facing one another, unmoving while both of our respective troops watched.

 _You'll have to make the first move,_ I thought to her, and narrowed my eyes under my helmet. Thanks to the padded eye slits of her mask I couldn't tell where she was looking, so I kept my shield-arm centered and low to prepare for attacks from any angle. She remained unmoving, trying to bait me into attacking first. Fine, I'd play that game.

I feinted a step forwards and brought the flail over my head in telegraphed smash. She skittered to the side nervously, but I'd already altered the flail's trajectory and brought it around into a long sideways sweep to stop her from circling any further. I had to be certain that she couldn't force me to place my back to the parapet, and as she lifted the glaive to knock my blow aside, and dashed forwards, bracing my shield against my chest for leverage and crashing into her like a tidal wave. I wasn't a large man by any means, but I was still bigger than her, and as I felt the impact of our bodies colliding I swept the shield upwards to shove her weapon out of the way. Stunned, the woman stumbled back against the edge of the wall, before she lashed out in a spinning kick. I swayed backwards, feeling the slight breeze as her foot passed my head, and then swung the flail upwards. The chain caught and wrapped around her leg before she could pull away, and I wrenched upwards, levering her up and over the wall. She didn't even have time to scream as the chain loosened and she plummeted over the wall to die in the steaming piles of carcasses down below.

My men charged forwards with a cry of victory, and I took a moment to catch my breath. Somehow, I'd expected that duel to have been much more difficult, but the slant-eye hadn't even landed a scratch on me. Heaving a sigh and trying to loosen the stiffness in my arms, I swung the flail experimentally a few times before setting off into the fray.

Fear was my most potent weapon here, and one which I was quick to utilize when faced with the hordes of slant-eyes that seemed to pop up at every turn. I'd made it to the stairs leading down into the city proper, but the path was clogged with battle, knights and Samurai straining against one another in a desperate bid for the city, and we were winning. We outnumbered our opponents and had a larger number of career soldiers on our side as well. Once we got those gates open and allowed our cavalry to enter Kilvarough, the battle would be all but over.

A particularly short slant-eye caught my flail head on his sword and parried expertly. I stumbled, off-balance, and he charged up the stairs at me, slashing furiously. I cowered as quick as I could beneath my shield and found myself surprised by the fury of his blows. I realized too late that I couldn't see him past my shield, and lowered it to try and get a better look at what my enemy was doing…

The slant-eye was dead, a Warden's long sword thrust through him from the side, skewering him like meat on a spit. I nodded my thanks to the offending Warden, received a similar gesture in return, and pressed onwards.

We continued, our forces fighting their way down the stairs and beginning to secure a place near the gatehouse. I stationed myself outside the door while several of our men went inside to work the mechanism. This was the most crucial point of the battle, and we'd already lost a lot of soldiers just getting to the gatehouse. The Chosen would be fighting much more desperately now to keep us from opening the gate now that they knew what our intentions were. Here and now were the most furious moments of fighting, and I found myself and several other knights surrounded on all sides by elite Japanese warriors. More of those odd hooded men armed with twin sickles danced to and fro, slinging thrown weapons at us from behind their friends while tall slant-eyes with long, heavy swords warded us off. Myself, the Warden from earlier, two Lawbringers and a heavily armored southerner with a short, broad sword supported our footmen, doing what we could to keep the gatehouse safe. I could hear the creaking of wood as the mechanism began to slowly work, and the clattering of chains.

One of the massive, behemoth-like men with the studded clubs came at me, swinging hard, and I ducked under his first swing, retaliating with a flurry of strikes. He parried the first and fourth, but the rest of them struck glancing blows across his thick arms and fat sides. My attack only seemed to annoy him, and I was forced to turn my attention away from him as enemy peons crowded me, swords and spears bristling at me. A roar of primal, unchecked rage issued from the throat of one of the Lawbringers, and I saw him charge into the fat slant-eye, running his halberd through one side of his body hard enough to send the head out the other. He was set upon by slant-eyes that hacked at his thick plate, and I moved with the Warden to assist him.

Too late, a Chosen man with twin swords drove both blades into the gap between breastplate and helmet, and the Lawbringer's visor was dripped out blood while disgusting gurgle echoed from inside. I fell back, recalling my last encounter with such an opponent, and felt the sting of a sickle against my brigandine. Somehow one of the hooded men, no several of them, had gotten behind me, and while this one kept me occupied, several others were moving into the gatehouse.

"Get those damned gates open!" I tried to order to the men inside, but I couldn't even hear my own voice over the tumult all around us. I punched savagely at the hooded man with my shield, striking a heavy blow, but he was agile, and recovered instantly. I could just make out him speaking in his own tongue to several of his fellows, and A pair of sickles pierced straight through my brigandine from behind, sinking into the meat of my back.

I screamed, whirling and throwing the small man off of my back. His sickles ripped out of my flesh, and I could only hope he hadn't punctured anything vital. Another hooded man slid past me on his knees, and a sickle slashed at the inside of my right knee. A gasped, nearly lost my footing, and swung the chain around his neck as fast as I could, pulling tight and feeling the tremor run through the flail's handle as his neck caved.

The Warden's sword cleaved the air at my shoulder and bisected the man with dual swords. His guts splattered me from head to toe, and I billowed forwards like a siege engine, using my shield like a battering ram to knock aside anyone that got in my way as I burst into the gatehouse. All but one of the westerners inside was dead, and the last one was struggling to hold his own against a slant-eye with a single, lightly curved blade.

The Samurai turned as I entered, and wasted no time, running at me with his weapon raised. I met him with a vicious swing of the flail, and he leaned back, just dodging it. A quick combination of sword swings thundered towards me, and I caught them in turn on my shield, turning each to the side and searching for an opening. I swept the flail in quick circles, forcing the man back, and began to force him back towards the rear wall. The one remaining soldier in the gatehouse had gone back to operating the gate mechanism, hauling on the wheel with all his strength to try and balance the counterweights and get the gate open.

The samurai turned away from my suddenly, as if to run, but there was nowhere to go… to my astonishment, in an amazing feat of agility, he took two steps up the wall as easy as if it were solid ground, before pushing off and soaring over my head. His bely seemed to just graze the roof of the guardhouse, and he landed with ease behind me, striking at my back. The sword cut beautifully, and I could feel the finely-honed edge slice first through my brigandine and then through my flesh. I staggered forwards, unable to cry out, only gasp as the blade scraped the back of my ribcage and chipped bone. My vision flashed red and I pivoted on one foot, whirling and bringing the flail around t attack. The samurai dodged again, and then burst forwards, the point of his sword angled at my shield…

The wood splintered again as the sword pierced the battered surface of my only defense and rammed through my forearm. This time I could scream, and did, seeing the blade of his sword protruding from my arm and feeling the lances of agony shooting up to my shoulder. Bracing his foot against my shield, he yanked his blade out, and I collapsed backwards against the wall, slumping against it and nursing my arm. Once again my shield had failed me in the heat of battle, and now I was on the verge of death. My wounds ached brutally, and my vision was blurred with tears. I was scared, despite all my belief in the worthlessness of life… I wasn;t ready to die yet.

My remaining soldier worked the mechanism wheel frantically, seemingly torn between his duty to the battle and his duty to me as a comrade. The samurai gripped his sword in both hands and drove it down at me in a killing blow. _Now is not your time!_ Came a furious voice within me, and twisted myself out of the way with as much strength as I could muster. The sword pierced my side, sliding through flesh and muscle but missing my innards, and sparking off of the stone walls of the guardhouse.

Fear transformed in a single instant to white hot rage, determination to stay alive pushing away reason and tactics as I slammed the rim of my shield into the blade of the samurai's sword with every ounce of strength in my body. A fissure in the blade, and the samurai tried to pull his sword back out of my, but I was faster this time, and brought the rim of the shield down once more into his sword blade.

There was a ringing like a bell and the sword shattered, half of it still stuck just above my hip, while the broken hilt remained clutched in my enemy's hand. I lunged to my feet, tackling the astonished samurai, and clubbed his face with the handle of the flail once before bringing the heavy head up in one more mighty circle. The air whirred around the spiked head, and I saw fear mirroring my own in the samurai's eyes.

"Te affligem!" I roared in Latin, the mother tongue of my people, and brought down the flail in a blow so mighty it sundered the samurai's head, helmet and all.


End file.
